Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYQ6A2YAP6KNAGF196S2FH

Rain hammered the pavement of Soho, turning the uneven cobblestones into slick, black mirrors. Detective Harlow Quinn vaulted a pile of refuse bags, the plastic tearing beneath her boots, scattering wet rot across the alley. Her breath hitched in her chest, sharp and hot, but she kept her eyes locked on the figure darting ahead. The suspect wore a oversized hoodie, sodden and clinging to a wiry frame. He wasn’t running with the panic of a petty thief; he moved with the desperate precision of prey that knew exactly what kind of predator hunted him. Quinn checked her wrist. The worn leather strap of her watch was dark with water, but the face glowed faint in the gloom. Past midnight. The streets were empty, save for the occasional taxi blaring past on the main thoroughfare. He feinted left, towards a dead end of brickwork, then scrambled up a rusted drainpipe. Quinn skidded to a halt, mud splashing her trench coat. She watched him pull himself onto the roof. Not fast enough. She took a running start, finding purchase on the damp brick, and hauled herself up. Her muscles burned, shoulders screaming as she swung a leg over the parapet. He was already gone, vanished into the labyrinth of rooftops. She stood, wiping rain from her eyes. The salt-and-pepper stubble on her sharp jaw usually made her look imposing, but tonight she just felt cold. Down below, the neon green sign of The Raven's Nest buzzed in the drizzle. Silas’s place. The centre of the web. A noise drew her attention. Metal grating shifting. Over the edge of the next building. She sprinted, leaping the narrow gap between the terraces. Her boots landed heavily on the tarred gravel. Below, the hooded figure had dropped into a service yard leading to the old Tube stations. Quinn peered over the ledge. He stood before a boarded-up entrance. An abandoned station, condemned decades ago. He didn’t force the boards. He knocked. Three distinct raps, rhythmic and practiced. A section of the wood slid aside. A hand伸出 from the darkness, pale under the streetlights. The hooded figure pressed something into the hand—a small, white object. A token carved from bone. Quinn’s heart hammered against her ribs. This wasn’t a drug deal. It was something else. She had seen these signs before, in the file of DS Morris. The unexplained circumstances. The blood that didn’t match the victims. The boards groaned open, revealing a gaping maw of darkness. The suspect slipped inside. Quinn didn’t hesitate. She moved to the fire escape, descending the ladder in rapid clatter of metal on metal. She hit the pavement running. The entrance yawned before her, smelling of ozone and damp earth. She stepped into the tunnel. The air grew heavy, stifling. The darkness here wasn't merely the absence of light; it felt like a physical weight, pressing against her skin. Ahead, the faint flicker of torchlight bobbed around a bend. She moved silently, hand hovering over the grip of her service weapon. She cleared the bend and stopped. The tunnel opened up. It wasn’t a maintenance room. It was a bazaar. The Veil Market. Stalls carved out of the rough rock walls lined a subterranean cavern. The ceiling was lost in shadows, illuminated only by the strange, bioluminescent glow of the merchandise. Quinn stared, her analytical mind scrambling to categorize the impossible. On a table to her left, jars containing shifting smoke sat next to piles of teeth that looked human but far too large. A vendor, whose skin seemed to ripple like oil on water, haggled with a woman wrapped in rags. No one screamed. No one ran. They simply watched her with the detached curiosity of fish observing a fly fallen into their tank. Quinn spotted the hoodie. He was at a stall further down, panting, clutching his side. A man stood opposite him. This new figure turned. He wore a crisp, white shirt stained with dark fluids, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Olive skin, dark curly hair. A Saint Christopher medallion glinted at his throat. Tomás Herrera. Quinn knew the face from the intelligence reports. The former paramedic. The back-alley butcher. The suspect grabbed Herrera by the collar. Herrera didn't flinch. He simply looked at the boy’s side, where a dark stain was spreading. He reached out, his fingers brushing the wound. Quinn stepped forward, her boots crunching on the gravelly floor. "Metropolitan Police!" Quinn’s voice cut through the hum of the market. "Nobody move!" The crowd shifted, a ripple of unease passing through them. The vendor with the rippling skin slipped a dagger under his table. Herrera didn't turn. He continued to inspect the wound on the suspect’s ribs. "Step away from him, Herrera." The paramedic sighed, a sound of long-suffering patience. He finally turned, warm brown eyes meeting Quinn’s gaze. He held up his hands. They were smeared with red, but there was something else in the blood. Silver flecks. "Detective," Herrera said. His accent was thick, lilting, Seville sunshine in a damp London basement. "You are trespassing." "I'm pursuing a suspect." Quinn kept her weapon raised but low, ready. "He’s under arrest. And you’re coming in for questioning." The hooded figure whimpered and tried to back away, but Herrera caught his arm, not with aggression, but with a gentle, firm grip. "He is hurt," Herrera said. "If you take him now, he dies before you reach the street." "He’s a criminal." "He is a courier. And he has been cut by a shade blade." Herrera gestured to the wound. Quinn risked a glance. The skin around the gash wasn't knitting; it was turning black, veins spreading like ink in water. She had seen wounds like this once before. On Morris. "Fix him," Quinn said, keeping her aim steady. "Then we talk." Herrera turned back to the boy. He reached into a leather satchel at his waist and pulled out a vial of glowing blue liquid. He uncorked it with his teeth. "Drink." The boy hesitated. Herrera tipped the vial to his lips. The boy gagged, swallowed, and slumped against the table. The black veins receded, pulling back like frightened worms. Quinn watched the exchange with a cold knot forming in her stomach. This wasn't medicine. It was alchemy. Magic. The things she had spent three years denying were real, standing right in front of her. "Who supplied the blade?" Quinn asked. Herrera wiped his hands on a rag, revealing a long, pale scar running along his left forearm. A knife attack, the file said. Looked more like a claw mark. "That is not your concern," Herrera said. "This place is not for your kind, Detective. You walk on the edge of a knife you cannot see." "I see plenty." She gestured to the stalls around them. "I see unlicensed pharmaceuticals. I see contraband." "You see what your mind allows you to see." Herrera walked around the table, closing the distance between them. He didn't walk with a fighter's stance, but with the calm of a man who knows death intimately and has already dismissed it. "Go back upstairs. The rain is washing the streets clean. Forget you saw the boy." "I can't do that." "Then you have a choice." Herrera stopped five feet away. He gestured deeper into the market, past the stalls, towards a tunnel that sloped downward into absolute darkness. "He is running to the Deep Wards. You follow him there, and you will not find your way back. You will become part of the inventory." Quinn looked past him. The boy had recovered enough to stand. He looked at Quinn, terror in his eyes, then bolted toward the dark tunnel. He vanished into the black. "Last chance," Herrera said softly. "The Market moves at the full moon. You have until dawn to find your way out, or you stay until the next cycle. If you go down there, there is no law. No backup. Just us." The silence of the cavern stretched tight. The oil-skinned vendor laughed, a wet, gurgling sound. Other patrons whispered, eyes glinting in the semi-darkness. Quinn checked her watch again. The second hand ticked, relentless. She holstered her weapon. She wasn't here to arrest a ghost. She was here to find the truth about Morris. She looked at the dark tunnel where the suspect had fled, then back at Herrera's impassive face. "If I go down there," Quinn said, "are you coming with me?" Herrera smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. "No. But I will be the one who stitches you back together when you return. If there is enough left to stitch." Quinn turned toward the tunnel. The air coming from it was freezing, carrying the scent of old copper and something rotting. She took a deep breath of the stale, recycled air and stepped into the unknown.